Obsessive Compulsive
by OneInFiveBillion
Summary: He had to get it all out before work; no one could know that there was something wrong with Ryan Wolfe.


Ryan shifted slowly in his bed, turning over until he was flat on his back, legs pressed tightly together and arms resting str

**Authors note: **Just had to write about his OCD, it fascinates me.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing

Ryan shifted slowly in his bed, turning over until he was flat on his back, legs pressed tightly together and arms resting straight down his side. He opened his eyes and counted slowly, _one…two…three…four…five_ before closing them again and counting, _one…two…three_, and opening them back up. He let out a frustrated sigh but repeated the action four more times.

Finally he pushed himself up and out of bed, running a hand through his hair and dragging it slowly down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave of his rising frustration.

It was the same every morning and there was nothing he could do, no amount of will power helped him in these situations. He had to get it all out before work, no one could know that there was something wrong with Ryan Wolfe.

He walked into the bathroom and headed over to the shower, bypassing the sink, trying to ignore the small voice in the back of his head, _you're hands are dirty, you have to wash them, don't touch anything or it'll be contaminated, dirty so dirty, _but without success, almost as soon as he had turned the shower on he turned it back off, rushing to the sink and lathering his hands with soap, preparing for the repetitiveness of washing and rewashing them.

An hour later he stepped out of the bathroom, steam following him as he made his way over to his wardrobe. Pulling on his clothes he scrunched his eyes shut and lifted his head to the ceiling, re-opening them only when he knew there was no chance of him catching a glimpse of his clothing.

Walking out of his bedroom he passed the sliding doors that lead to the balcony and he caught a glimpse of his clothing, his eyes settling on the highly evident wrinkles on the bottom of his pants. Growling with frustration he turned back on his path and entered the laundry, stripping his pants of and laying them over the already set up ironing board.

Twenty minutes later he still stood in front of the ironing board, the wrinkles on his pants long gone, yet he couldn't force himself to stop ironing them. Five more minutes passed before a loud smash resonated through the apartment, Ryan leant heavily on the board, his face red with anger and tears of agitation threatening to fall from his eyes. The iron lay on the floor on the other side of the room, amidst shattered glass from what used to be a window.

Shoulders heaving with the effort of restraining himself he pulled his pants back on and hurried out of the room, forcing himself to leave the iron and shattered glass on the floor.

It wasn't fair. Getting ready for work shouldn't be so hard, but the consequences of not performing these repetitive actions, of not giving in to the impulses, would be dire. He couldn't take the chance of anyone finding out that there was something more to his OCD than just the occasional work habit.

Forgetting breakfast for the third time this week he headed down the stairs counting in his head with every step he took, making sure that each foot hit each step fully before moving onto the next. He chose to walk along the grass, keeping out of the way of the concrete stepping stones so as to avoid a repeat of what happened with the stairs.

In the car on the way to work he gripped the steering wheel tightly, frustration flowing through him as he looked at the clock, _8:36am_, gritting his teeth he tried not to think about the trouble he'd be in for being late to work, for the third time this week.

Hearing his phone ring he let his finger hover over the answer button waiting for, _ring…ring…ring…ring…ring, _five rings before allowing himself to press it.

"Wolfe," He said, trying to mask the agitation and frustration that clearly laced his voice.

"You alright Ryan?" Horatio asked, picking up on Ryan's mood.

"I'm fine Lt. Just tired, haven't been getting much sleep lately." He gripped the steering wheel tighter and blinked his eyes a few times, trying to calm himself down.

"Alright then," Horatio replied, "Heres what I want you to do, I want you to meet me at 123rd on Riviera, near the north end of the canal. We've got a deceased male on the rooftop."

"Sure thing H," Ryan said, punching the address into the navigation system and clicking his phone off.

By the time he'd arrived at the scene he had calmed down considerably, his eyes were dry, his smile was bright and his tone was filled with nothing but comfort and ease.

He smiled at the patrol officer as he ducked under the tape, stopping in front of them to get directions on how to proceed to the rooftop.

"There's only a set of stairs to the top," the officer said, "elevators been stopped, got some sort of evidence in it."

Ryan nodded and headed inside, glancing upwards at the stairwell and swallowing thickly as he tried to quash the niggling feeling in the back of his mind.

Placing his left foot firmly on the step he counted, _one_, right foot, _two,_ left, _three, _right, _four…_

Eventually he made it to the top, pushing open the large steel door he almost ran into Calleigh who was busy dusting the other side of it for prints.

She smiled at him, "That's a lot of stairs to be climbing so early in the morning."

And before he could stop himself he concluded, "196 to be exact."

There was no way he would ever be able to leave his OCD at home.


End file.
